


you are my favorite ‘what if’

by minorseventh



Series: love is on the radio (otayuri au) [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pining, alternate universe - DJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 05:07:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9864188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minorseventh/pseuds/minorseventh
Summary: By now, Otabek has learned to never let his hopes up: he’s been let down too many times. But he can’t help but imagine that this may be the face to the lovely anonymous dancer who’s been calling the station nearly every night now.There is no way, Otabek convinces himself. No way it’s him.(Spoiler alert: it’s him.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from fall out boy (“fourth of july”)
> 
> [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/athomeintheuniverse/playlist/7HLMtrklntKVgzv6eXrfoR)   
> 

Any day spent looking through vinyl treasures is a good day. Otabek believes there’s something special with a good, old-fashioned record: the way it feels, the way the needle drops so effortlessly, the way it plays with a moment of static giving way to a pure, unfiltered sound…

Of course, records are expensive, and he hasn’t been blessed yet with a great weekly salary, so he can’t just go for the shiny new releases piled up at the front of the shop. Instead, he follows his usual path to the back of the store. There, he finds himself surrounded by waist-high boxes of marked-down recordings, and immediately sets to work leafing through potential options.

The Clash, Chantal Claret, The Hush Sound… all great names. Otabek files them away for future reference, under that ever-updating prospective list of music to play on the show.

A smear of bright blue gouache catches his eye. No… that can’t be… _Parachutes_ by Frank Iero and the Patience?! Just released last year! The cover looks slightly worn, but otherwise, it’s still nearly in mint condition.

Otabek holds it reverently. He doesn’t want to turn it over, afraid that the price tag might stretch his budget. He’s considering his options when a familiar voice interrupts his line of thinking.

“Excuse me, just wondering if you could recommend some of your favorite singles to me? Maybe?”

Otabek turns around, and tries to disguise the hopeful surprise on his face.

By now, Otabek has learned to never let his hopes up: he’s been let down too many times. But he can’t help but imagine that this may be the face to the lovely anonymous dancer who’s been calling the station nearly every night now. The two voices, after all, are of similar timbre.

If it is, then, _damn_.

Okay, so he is a bit smaller than Otabek originally imagined, ultimately, but he is _beautiful_. His personality, to a certain degree, must outweigh his frame, as dictated by the leopard-print hoodie that could probably be spotted a mile away. Of course, his figure, though slight, is held with all the strength of training. His hair falls into his face, and Otabek maybe has to resist the urge to push it away.

Wow. Unbelievable. What an enchanting fairytale, what a cliché chance encounter. This is a story for the recordbooks.

That is, of course, assuming this was the same guy in the first place.

But even if it’s not the anonymous dancer, Otabek still feels like he has met this stranger before…?

*

It all begins one night when Michele tells him that there’s a “freaking insistent caller who for some reason really wants to get ahold of you” on the line (his words, not Otabek’s).

Otabek shrugs. By now, so many people have already called in to complain about his music taste that he has gotten over the hate-fueled humiliation. Sometimes they complain about the heavy metal, or that there isn’t enough of it. After that one time a caller made him play _Ur So Gay_ by Katy Perry live on air, he virtually stopped accepting caller requests. Nearly a year in the business has taught him to suck it up and get over it.

But it’s a restless night, the kind that even a straight hour’s worth of Queen isn’t helping, and Otabek is… well, bored. Usually he could care less, but hey, a bit of petty drama never hurt publicity.

“Let me talk to them on air,” he tells Michele.

The latter laughs for a while before realizing that Otabek is actually being serious. Michele shoots the radio host a somewhat worried look (and curses in concern, as he is wont to do) before telling the caller to stay on the line.

“This might be fun,” Otabek says, over the blasting final chorus of _Enter Sandman_.

Honestly, he’s pretty excited. It’s like the hype before one’s first acceleration on a motorbike. He’s already got an arsenal of comebacks gunned up and ready to go, and…

“103.1FM, this is Otabek, and… it appears we have a caller…?”

“ _Postcards from Italy_ by Beirut.”

Wait. What?

That... that’s actually a pretty decent song choice. Otabek has to admit that Beirut is his band of choice to stream on repeat during those on those forlorn, hopeless days.

“Feeling down recently, caller?” he asks, casually.

“Um, yeah… just dance practice… pretty tiring,” the caller answers.

And that’s not an answer that anyone could or would give on a daily basis. Otabek can’t help but feel incredibly intrigued. He wants to ask so many questions, wants to know this unidentified caller’s name, date of birth, address, passions… what makes him stay up late at night…

(Michele glares at him dangerously from the side booth and impatiently points at his watch.)

“Dance is a painstakingly tough sport. I admire anyone who can commit to it,” Otabek finally settles on saying, and starts up _Postcards from Italy_. He feels a bit embarrassed, but the song’s easygoing rhythm washes the feeling away.

Halfway through the song, the anonymous dancer sighs right next to Otabek’s earpiece. He hadn’t realized the call was still ongoing, but the soft “thank you” is so realistically close to him that it sends tingles down his spine. 

Otabek blinks, once, twice, and rubs the trance from his eyes. “Shoutout to our anonymous caller for that last selection: _Postcards from Italy_ by Beirut.”

He shivers reflexively.

“You’re welcome, anonymous caller. Best wishes. Hope you feel better.”

He hits play on the next suggested song, _Transatlantique_ , without thinking. His brain feels too muddled for his own good.

*

Serik laughs at him for asking if people really do have soulmates. “What are you imagining, then? Like some sort of otherworldly force that you can literally, inexplicably feel pulling you towards another person? As if!”

Otabek shakes his head mutely, chewing his manti thoughtfully. “I was just curious,” he says. He puts down his fork and reaches for the game controller.

“Another round, then?”

*

Otabek scrunches his eyebrows, trying to think through his mental library of music. “Panic! At the Disco? Oh, that guy with the insanely high falsetto? _Death of a Bachelor_? I don’t know much of their music.”

The anonymous caller sighs dramatically on the other end of the line. “You have to listen to some of their old stuff. Melodies are catchy and the lyrics are downright genius,” he says.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Otabek says, failing to not smile. “Let’s start my education on this right now, then. Up next, on 101.3FM, we’re playing… _London Beckoned Songs About Money Written By Machines_ …”

The radio host is out of breath by the end of the sentence (whoever thought to use a novel as a song title, anyways?), and the caller laughs at him as the song starts up.

Otabek thinks he’s maybe a little bit in love with that laugh.

*

He’s managing the sound for a gig downtown before work, and between adjusting the volume of the bass line and clarity of the drumkit, he finds himself carefully watching each dancer on the floor.

He nurses a ginger ale, adjusts his headphones on his head, nods to acknowledge a few friends who’ve brought their partners out for a night on the town.

The live band launches into a slow ballad, and the rhythm guitarist is slightly out of tune. The sound creates an imperfect atmosphere, which somehow also fits. It’s like the suspense before a happy ending, or the thrill of a final rollercoaster dive, or even the victory of almost completing a jigsaw puzzle. Otabek can’t place the feeling.

*

“Familiar caller ID,” Michele calls from the other room.

That’s all he needs to say.

Otabek already has a finger on the intercom.

*

Why is the Baranovskaya Dance Showcase popping up in his suggested events list? It can’t be because it’s influenced by Otabek’s Google searches, so… maybe they’re interested in offering a part-time DJ position or something?

*

The anonymous dancer usually called in about forty-three minutes into the show. Half the time, he would request an obscure song that Otabek had never heard of, but would end up in love with by the end of the track; other times he said nothing and just listened to Otabek’s songs of choice, breathing softly down the receiver. Usually this is accompanied afterwards by some complaints about dance, the weather, or life in general. On thirteen occasions, he has unconsciously complimented Otabek’s taste in music.

Not that Otabek’s keeping track or anything.

*

It’s been a saga of several months now, and it finally seems like the anonymous dancer is here, right in front of Otabek’s very eyes.

If it is him, of course.

Fingers crossed?

There is no way, Otabek convinces himself. No way that’s him.

He swallows. Does he have any music to recommend? Well–

“Sure,” he says. “I know a few.” He scratches the back of his head. “But maybe I should know your name, first?”

“Yuri,” the newcomer says, almost uncertainly.

“Yuri,” Otabek repeats, feeling the way the “r” rolls off his tongue. “Nice to meet you.”

He holds out his hand.

Yuri shakes it.


End file.
